


Give Me a Pulse Over Politics Any Day

by Explicit_Lightsaber_Wh00sh



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Based off of 'The Mystic' but it went off the rails, Crying, Cuddling, Depression, Fred is dead and Percy blames himself, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, OOC, Oliver Wood Needs a Hug, Oliver Wood is there for Percy Weasley, Percy Weasley Needs a Hug, Percy Weasley hurt, Percy carrying the world on his shoulders, Post-War, Slight Weasley Bashing, Suicide Attempt, blame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:42:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25812997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Explicit_Lightsaber_Wh00sh/pseuds/Explicit_Lightsaber_Wh00sh
Summary: The ministry is filled with Death Eaters and Percy, at the end of his wits and grieving over the death of his brother, does something he might regret.Trigger warning, for depression, attempted suicide, and mild torture.
Relationships: Percy Weasley/Oliver Wood
Comments: 4
Kudos: 167





	Give Me a Pulse Over Politics Any Day

This is why he hates politics.

Right now, Percy is sitting on his bed, in his own apartment. It’s a small apartment, peeling paint on the doors and glitchy lights— a prostitute that makes her rounds at the front— but it’s as close to home as he’ll get. 

(But he knows it’s not home. Home is the smell of bread rolls in the morning and the ruckus of five-plus gingers under a rickety roof racing to get to them while they’re still warm. Home is the warmth of the four bannered bed that he and Oliver would share when it was cold, and then even when it wasn’t. This isn’t home. It’s just a temporary resting place.)

Politics is all smoke and mirrors. There is no real substance that gets done, just an infinite cycle of passing the grunt work onto some poor sap and claiming the credit. Fudge passes it to Crouch, Crouch passes it to him, and he passes it off to whoever will get his desk when they clear out his personal effects to send home to his family. That is, if they still accept him. That is, if they’re still alive.

Politics is all masks and glittery costumes. The moment he steps into the ministry, he’s not Percy Weasley, boyfriend to Oliver Wood, avid baker, die-hard book worm, secret hardcore romantic. No. He’s Percy Weasley, blood traitor, poverty-stricken, second-hand robes, loyal to his work first and ministry second. 

Well, after tonight, Percy’s mirrors will be smashed next to his crumpled up mask. 

The shimmering blue light that comes off of the vile brings Percy a peace that he hadn’t known for so long. 

He bought it at Knockturn alley, a shifty witch selling it to him for his old Gryffindor uniforms. He hopes it’s for her son. But, thinking back to the witch’s other business, he hopes she doesn’t have a son. 

But, family is a complicated term. When he was still in school, he would’ve done anything to get Fred and George out of his life— perhaps living a nice life in Australia or the States. Now? He’d do anything to get George to look him in the eye without hexing him. 

His brothers sent him a care package, a few months after he left the family. It had the secretary sent to St.Mungo’s. They’re still trying to stop the bleeding from her nose, despite having her stomach pumped of all the nougat she ingested. 

He left his mother in tears that night.

He left in tears that night. 

The vile is bigger than his hands, five times the recommended dose. He pours all of it into a cauldron and lets it simmer. 

The potion is like blue honey with an almost ethereal glow to it. The blue reminds Percy of his mother’s eyes. Of those same eyes that were passed down to every one of his siblings, including him. He’s a part of something so much bigger, isn’t he? Well, the bigger they are, the harder they fall. 

He drowned himself in work after that night; when he chose to protect his family financially rather than being there for them. He drowned himself in alcohol after the secretary was sent to the hospital. None of it worked. 

Perhaps he shouldn’t blame politics, after all, a system isn’t at fault for him not showing up to Bill and Fleur’s wedding, for making Mum cry. 

Perhaps that’s why he’s doing this. 

He pours the now simmered potion into a mug, bigger on the inside. He raises the glass in a mock cheer. What will he cheer for? Prosperous wealth? A healthy life? An everlasting family? Who will he cheer with? His co-workers, nothing more than death eaters in fine dress robes. His boyfriend? Playing with a Quidditch team on the other side of the world. His family? One of them’s dead. 

He downs the contents, and lies on the bed, on top of the covers. 

He needs to feel the punishment. Needs to feel the physical manifestation of choosing work over his family. Did he really do it for the greater good?

The ministry is overrun with death eaters. The head of his own department is using bloodline papers to track the muggle-borns and kill them. He’s done what he can, forged hundreds of papers, invented over four dozen more members of the Weasley family alone. 

The cruciatus curse is so much worse than the overwhelming sense of calm he feels right now. When Lestrange grew suspicious of the lack of mudbloods dying in their branch, she pinned him to the wall with magic and tore through his mind with legilmency. 

He focused on the all-nighters at work, the thickness of cauldrons, the loyalty he holds for the ministry. He pushed the intoxicating scent of sweetgrass the Burrow would smell like in the spring, the way Oliver’s eyes shine when he wins, the loyalty he holds for his brothers, his sister, his parents. 

“Hmm, he’s loyal for a blood traitor. Here’s your reward— another day to live. Cruccio!” 

Right now, Percy is floating on his bed, the mug dropping from his hands. He hears it from the back of his mind, from the top of his cloud, the ceramic piece shattering. A gift from Ginny when he got the job, Best Worker, embossed along the side. There’s knocking on his door, but he doesn’t pay it mind, thinking back to Ginny— his baby sister who would invite him, only him, to her tea parties. 

She didn’t write to him when he left. 

“Percy” The knocking is getting louder, but Percy pays it no mind. Not when he’s this relaxed, this calm. 

None of them did. 

“Percy...” The door is ripped off its hinges, but nothing matters anymore. 

No one did. When Oliver left for his Quidditch team, he took Percy’s heart with him— that arsehole. Now, even though he’s all fuzzy and warm and relaxed, there’s a dull ache in his chest. But that doesn’t matter either— Oliver’s probably as dead as Fred. 

“Percy—”

Percy did his part in the war. He’s suffered his part in the war. He’s fought his part in the war. 

“Percy!”

He’s put out the smoke and mirrors to confuse. He’s put on the mask and glittery costume to deter.

“Percy! Wake up” 

Now let him rest. 

“PERCY! Please, wake up!” Hands grasp his shoulder, broad and calloused from endless hours of practice, shaking him. His head lolls to the side, eyes closed and breaths shallow. Droplets of water land on his face from the person on top of him. Maybe there’s yelling? The warmth that Percy feels in his chest leaves, replaced with a chilled frost that spreads to his fingertips, his toes. But it’s ok, he sleeps better in the cold. 

Now, let him rest. 

“Fucking hell. Tergeo!”

Pain. White, hot pain that burns through his blood and erupts out of his mouth. The potion is forced back up in a whirlpool of blue, Percy’s tears going with it. When it finally stops, Percy collapses back onto the bed, sweat beading on his forehead. 

Where did the cold go? All Percy feels is the bundle of hot lead curling up in his stomach, his lungs barely getting in enough air as he hyperventilates. 

Of course, the lack of air could also be from the behemoth of a man whose on top of him, built arms wrapped around Percy’s lither frame with a steel grip. He’s still dizzy, still feels like he let down his family, still wants to die, but Oliver makes it a little better. 

Percy hugs him back, rolling so they’re both on their sides. 

“I thought you were dead.” Oliver’s voice is rough like he’s been drinking. Percy doesn’t blame him, his whole liquor cabinet would’ve been gone if it wouldn’t have interfered with the potion’s effects. 

“I thought you were dead, too.” His own voice is strained, soft, a side effect of his vocal cords relaxing to the point of near shutting down. The screaming he did probably tore them, but Percy can’t find it in him to care. Something salty hits to the corner of his mouth. 

Oh, Oliver’s crying. 

Another drop rolls off his cheek, splashing his ear. 

Oh, he’s crying too. 

“The- Merlin, Percy. The war’s over. It’s done. Potter killed him, the death eaters are being arrested as we speak.” And Oliver’s kissing him, his lips moulding to his like it was made for it. Hands carding through his hair, pulling him closer, and Percy is so overwhelmed, he can’t breathe and 

“Wait! Oliver, what— I still don’t… Why did you stop me?” Oh, he’s still crying. He still can’t breathe, why can’t he breathe?

“Percy! C’mon, in. Out. In. Out.” He’s being pulled into Oliver’s chest again, his ear pressed up against his heart, the beats frantic, but there. 

Oliver is alive, he’s not another conquest at the hands of a death eater. He’s not a victim caught in the crosshairs of friendly fire. 

But Fred’s not. He’s gone, George’s ear with him. 

But the respect his family held for him is not, it vanished the moment he stepped outside of the Burrow’s wards, the moment Mum started crying for him to come back, don’t go. 

“Why am I still here, Oliver! Why didn’t you let me go? I, I wasn’t there. I wasn’t there for the fight, I don’t deserve to live in the aftermath, not when the people who died can’t. If I hadn’t left that night, I could’ve fought with them, Oliver. I could’ve saved him, it would’ve been me that died instead of Fred. I— I’m the big brother, the one who should’ve shouldered these consequences. Not George, not Fred. Me. But I couldn’t even do that! Just,” He’s so defeated, all he wants is to rest, “let me go.” 

Then, Oliver is pulling him up and kissing him again, hard, passionate, some would say with the desperation of a dying man. 

“For a genius, you’re a bloody idiot. Percy, Fred’s death is not your fault. It’s no one’s fault except that death eater that shot him down. Percy, you did your part in the war, you went above and beyond. You of all people deserve to live, deserve to live the life your brother gave. And…” Oliver trails off, pressing his lips once more against Percy’s. 

“I love you. I’ve loved you since our sixth year when sleeping in your bed became more than just outlasting the nightmare. I loved you when you got your ministry position. When you had to move in with me after you left your family.” Oliver pulls him closer, their legs entwining on the bed. 

“I loved you when I had to tour with my team, I stopped sending letters when word got back that England would be screening owls. I kept all the letters you sent me, though. Got them in my bag, over there. Percy, please. Believe me when I say that when you go… I’ll be right behind you. 

Percy sobs harder, pressing his face into Oliver’s chest, just to be closer to the beating of his heart, just to witness the shaky breaths that go in and out of his lungs. 

“I- I love you too. Bloody hell, I love you so much it hurts. Please… just. Please, stay with me?” 

“Of course, Perce.” 

Oliver disrobes himself and Percy of their clothes, sans boxers. He gathers the smaller man up in his arms, scared at how light he is, the paper thinness of his skin, his limbs. Covering Percy first with his arms, then with the thick comforter, Oliver puts as many layers as he can between them and the world outside. 

With Percy snuggled up against his chest, eyes puffy and nose red from his crying, Oliver feels something in himself break. Gently, so he doesn’t wake the gingered man up, Oliver looks at what the years have done to Percy. 

Percy was always lanky, with gangly limbs that he didn’t seem to know what to do with. But, looking at him now, he would’ve called seventh year Percy overweight. Oliver runs a hand over Percy’s chest, counting his ribs as he does. His fingers graze across a large scar, starting just below the other’s bellybutton and curving down into his left thigh. What puts Oliver on edge are the obvious remanent of muggle stitches on the now healed wound, the string— most likely cheap sewing thread— still embedded into his skin. 

Oliver felt the scars on Percy’s back, but he can’t bring himself to look at them. Instead, he encompasses Percy into his arms once more and pushes his head into the curve of the other’s neck, his ear against the other’s pulse. 

Maybe boyfriends aren’t supposed to cuddle each to make sure the other still alive. Or, maybe boyfriends aren’t supposed to break down doors to make sure their significant other is still alive. Maybe they’re a little fucked up. 

But, feeling the pump pump pump of the other’s pulse in his ears, steady and strong just like the man it belongs to, Oliver is ok with being a little fucked up.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey Peoples! So I decided to publish this little one-shot after hearing The Mystic by Adam Jensen. I'm sure there are many other works inspired by this particular song because it's a bop, but this is my own personal take on how it would manifest when applied to Percy Weasley. 
> 
> Thank you very much for reading! Kudos and comment (even if it's just a <3) are appreciated and encouraged!


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